Chapter Three

Tshiyamba is Sacrificed

A guard named Katombe watched the captives. They passed
each day in great fear, as snared animals awaiting the
arrival of the snare owner. The day for Ngongo's return came
and passed. When there was no more food, Katombe sent guards
with slaves to get cassava from fields near villages they had
destroyed. He had others make palm-frond shelters to protect
people from rain. He loosed the bonds of a few women each day
to prepare palm oil and to gather greens for cooking. Bit by
bit, the fear of Ngongo's return was washed from their minds
as the tears of a weeping woman slowly wash the face.

A month passed. It became clear to everyone that they
could not continue this way forever. The day was coming when
Katombe would have to make a decision. Clan leaders among the
slaves whispered with one another when they were not being
guarded closely; they formed a plan, and waited.

One evening, the sun already having set, slaves were
given larger portions of food. They ate. Guards began to make
them lie down to sleep early. Slaves with more courage kept
asking them why. Finally a guard said, "You will need
strength. When day breaks, we begin our journey."

"Where are we going?" Those who heard the guard's words
fastened their eyes upon him.

"We are going to meet those waiting for us."

The word spread like fire driven by wind through dry
grass. Clan leaders knew that on such a journey, many would
die. Others would become ill and, after arriving, would also
die. At this point they had one word in their hearts: "The
forefathers said, 'What is the difference whether the witch
doctor kills you with flea bites, or with poverty? The
chicken who sees the knife and pot knows what is going to
happen.' Now is the time to have courage and speak. If we
die, we die."

"Let us speak with Katombe," one said.

"Yes. Take us to Katombe!" answered other clan leaders.
The words caught the lips of everyone: "We want Katombe! Let
Katombe come." Guards began striking a few people, but the
captives would not be silenced. Katombe, in his hut, knew by
listening that this was no meaningless uproar. He heard his
name. Through darkness that now made everyone look the same,
he came, and stood at the edge of the circle of people.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

Even the insects became silent. Then a clan leader
brave enough to die spoke in the darkness.

"Is it true that we begin the journey tomorrow?"

"Yes."

There was more silence of waiting.

"Do you know this journey will be a success?"

"Why would it not be?"

Sufficient silence appealed for Katombe's respect.

"Have you gathered enough food for this many people for
such a long journey?" one asked.

Another followed. "If we raid the fields of others
along the way, will they not attack us? You and your helpers
have only a few guns and hand weapons; will that be
sufficient to defend us?"

"Some of us will die on this journey," said another.
"With the passing of sufficient days, others of us will
truly arrive. But if when we arrive, we find that Ngongo was
slain in war, what will we do? The journey will have been
for nothing."

Katombe was silent. Slaves hoped this meant he was
perplexed. Finally he spoke.

"What are you asking for?"

"We know that you are troubled," said the first one.
"You are as a wren sitting alone on a grass stem after a
prairie fire. You want your chief. But we have watched you.
You know how to take care of people. You may take us
tomorrow. Suppose after many days, you lose many of us and
find your chief. Then will your heart truly be happy? The
elders say, 'Feed animal entrails to a lion long enough,
and it will return to consume you.' Do you think you will
serve Ngongo happily forever?"

Quietness.

"What do you want to say?" Katombe asked.

"Which is better? For you to be the servant of Ngongo
who may someday betray you; or to be chief of people who
want you?"

People stopped breathing and waited. Katombe was
thinking hard.

"If I were your chief, what would you pledge me?"

Words of clan leaders ran one over the top of another.

"We would pledge ourselves to be your people forever."

"We would not desert you. Where would we go?"

"We would pour the oil of anointing upon you, and upon
your sons who follow you."

"We would sit here as one people, and build the
kingdom of Katombe."

Katombe paused. Within him these words were writing
themselves clearly. Then he took his guards to one side and
began talking with them. People waited, fear battling their
hope. Finally, through the darkness spoke the voice of
Katombe.

"Greetings. If your pledges are true, so be it."

No one could sleep that night. When day came, Katombe
sent guards with a gun to hunt a male sheep and other food
animals. They returned when the sun was past half its
journey. The seven clan leaders shed the sheep's blood
and, with it, sealed the covenant of Katombe's
chieftainship. From one of its horns, they poured the oil
of anointing upon his head. Then they carried him on their
shoulders to a tree. He mounted himself onto its big limbs
and with a loud voice, declared the authority of his
chieftainship. Clan leaders cried out in assent, and bowed
to the ground before him. Then guards cut off the bonds
which remained. That evening, women prepared a feast.
Everybody partook of the covenant food. Then they danced
in celebration of their joy, not watching the time, into
the darkness, until their strength was finished.

X X X X

Our people abandoned their palm-frond shelters. They
built huts of mud walls and grass roofs. They planted
their fields; they bore their children. Katombe was a
strong chief, ruling his people well. As one plants a
peanut in the ground and, later, pulls up a handful, so
our people multiplied.

The passing of years washes away the colors of
memory. The way my people had suffered under Ngongo Lutete
began to fade; their promise to sit as one person under
Katombe began to fade. Clan leaders began competing for
power, each wanting to make himself a chief. Then came
fighting. Bloodshed, beginning as a rivulet, grew into a
stream that wanted to wash them all away. One day Katombe
called the clan leaders, sat them down before him, and
spoke.

"Many rain seasons ago, when you wanted to make me
chief, I had hard thoughts," he began. "No one had ever
heard of a stranger becoming chief of slave captives from
mixed tribes. Also, our hands were empty. But your
pleading softened my heart, and I accepted. Then by working
hard, we did an amazing thing. As maggots, without a knife,
butcher an elephant carcass, so we, with nothing, built our
tribe.

"But now it appears you have forgotten that I had pity
on you. You have forgotten that it was your hands which
poured upon my head the anointing oil; it was your mouths
which spoke the words that you would sit in peace and
together build the kingdom of Katombe. These many years, as
one family, we have slept under the same roof. If you have
not forgotten your promises, why do you now speak words
which split the house?"

"Under the chieftainship of Ngongo, some of you would
have lived. Shall people say that under the chieftainship
of Katombe, everyone died? Will you wipe yourselves from
the earth, and at the same time, bring such shame upon me?
No. I will not accept it. Each of you must look hard into
the customs of your forefathers. Together, we must carry
out a strong covenant. The blood of those you have killed
is crying from the earth. Our covenant must be strong
enough to silence it. The covenant we make must bring an
end to bloodletting, and show all generations following us
that we are a tribe of peace."

When shame subsided, clan leaders began looking at one
another. They agreed on what they must do. Then their hands
worked, while their hearts, as dumb sentinels, watched.

One day a covenant feast was prepared. They chose a
large open space between the path where bypassers walked,
and the first row of houses. They cleaned and swept it. In
the center of it they dug a large deep hole, heaping the
fresh brown dirt around its edge. The people of each clan
brought a live goat; a throwing spear; an innocent virgin
girl, and cassava flour to prepare mush for the feast.
Before eating together, they would seal their covenant.
Every person of Chief Katombe was to be present, or bear
the penalty of death.

Chief Katombe sat on his chieftainship chair, the hole
remaining to his right. His leopardskin of authority was
across his knees. A strong servant stood on each side of
him. Seven clan leaders sat on low stools in a circle
before him; each had a spear and a bound goat at his feet.
Seven young girls stood quietly in a line along the other
side of the hole, facing the chief. In the open space
encircling them all, packed as tightly as dried grass stems
on a hut roof, stood the people of Katombe.

The chief drew lots to choose one of the girls. The
lot caught a girl named Tshiyamba. Katombe made her stand
before him.

"Our child Tshiyamba, this is your day of glory. As of
today, all of us you see standing here wipe from our
memories forever the names of our clans. It is your honor
to be founder of a new tribe of people, the tribe of
Tshiyamba. We who look upon you with our eyes, bind
ourselves in a covenant never to be broken to honor you
forever, and to live as one tribe in peace. Because of what
we do today, our children and our children's children will
call themselves by your name, and will sit in peace and
happiness. Heaven and earth, witness our oaths."

Katombe nodded to his servants. They covered the
girl's eyes with a cloth, and tied it. They laid her on the
ground. One tied her hands, quietly speaking words of
comfort to her. The other tied her feet, his hands wanting
to tremble. The hearts of all watching them trembled. The
servants lifted Tshiyamba, sat her down into the center of
the deep hole, and returned to their places. The chief
cried with a voice loud enough to enter every ear:

"Earth under our feet, upon you all living beings
walk; from you all living things eat. We have done you
badly. We have drained upon you the blood of our
tribemates. They died for nothing. Their blood cries for
vengeance. Today, may its cries be appeased and silenced
forever. We now drain upon you this innocent blood to cover
our guilt. Accept this sacrifice which we offer you, and
let peace again come between us."

Then he cried to his people, "May this shed blood
appease the earth for our fighting!"

"So be it!" cried the people.

"May it cleanse us of our evil!"

"So be it!"

"May it bind us together as one thing!"

"So be it!"

"May it seal our oaths forever!"

"So be it!"

Then the clan leader on the chief's right rose, took
his goat to the hole, slashed its throat, and drained its
blood into the fresh ground. Each other leader followed in
his turn.

A piece of meat was cut from each carcass and cooked
in one pot. A portion of cassava flour from each clan was
cooked in another. When the food was prepared, clan leaders
sat closely in a little circle around the two pots, and
Katombe said:

"May the one who eats with enmity in his heart toward
another be cursed and die."

"So be it!"

"Make your vows to the earth; show it that there is no
longer anger among us."

Each clan leader in his turn, broke a handful of
cassava mush off the loaf in the pot, and threw it into the
hole. Then they sat down together and ate the food.

Again the chief cried out, his hands gripping the
chair arms tightly.

"Is fighting among us finished forever?"

"It is finished!"

"Before the Great Elder Spirit, pronounce your oaths
to the earth."

Each clan leader, one after the other, took his weapon
of war, broke its staff, and laid it in the hole beside
Tshiyamba.

Then Katombe turned his chair to face the hole. Clan
leaders knelt around the edge of the hole, and lifted loose
dirt in their hands. A woman began to mourn. Katombe stood
slowly and spoke, his voice like that of an animal in pain.

"Tshiyamba, our vows have entered your ears. Your ears
are the ears of the earth. Your spirit will live in the
earth forever. We have made our peace now. Should any one
among us raise his hand to break our peace, may the earth
swallow him in vengeance. May your spirit destroy him. May
his seed be cursed to perpetuity."

"Shall it be thus?" he asked his people.

"Let it be thus!"

Each clan leader threw his handful of dirt onto
Tshiyamba.

The servants closed the hole, with everybody watching.

Thus one gave her life to finish our evil and to
reconcile us again. Since that day, our people, under Chief
Katombe and his descendants, have called themselves "The
Tribe of Tshiyamba," and have lived in peace.